Hall of the Bear

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The prison bus left its only two passengers at the door of Rothrad Penitentiary. A guard who had accompanied them saw to it that his charges—one a hacker, one a killer—were uncuffed and safely in the lobby of the prison. When the heavy metal door closed behind the prisoners, the mechanism inside it clicked loudly. Locked.

Wyatt Keaveney, who was either in or nearing his late thirties, took a few steps further inside the lobby and surveyed the room. Most of the lobby was cordoned off, save for a path that newcomers were undoubtedly supposed to follow, though the rest of the room was bare. The walkway led straight into the lobby perhaps twenty feet, then the cordons were shifted to the right for another twenty-five feet, leading to a door that presumably would open up to the prison proper, where the two new inmates would find their cells. Before the door there was a metal detector, and a computer system beyond that that Wyatt was unfamiliar with.

Wyatt’s companion, a teenager who had introduced himself as Edgar Sealock, started up the walkway without a glance around the room, without a thought to the absence of guards here. The door had locked behind them, there were no windows—no way out but through. Security cameras, mounted high on the walls, followed the prisoners’ movements as Wyatt followed Edgar down the cordoned path.

For a moment Edgar lingered at the end of the straightaway, straining his eyes in an attempt to see what was hidden behind a partially open door. He guessed it was just a closet, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity. When he leaned against the cordon to get a tiny bit closer, a far-off alarm bell sounded, accompanied by something of a much lower pitch from inside the closet itself. (Something sliding down the wall, perhaps? He wasn’t sure how anything might have fallen, but was sure it wasn’t impossible.) Edgar immediately returned his attention to the walk and hurried to catch up with Wyatt, who had overtaken him while he snooped.

At the end of the line through the lobby they passed through the metal detector and were assigned numbers. These flashed on the computer screen as they passed it, and represented their inmate numbers, they thought. Cell blocks were probably in ranges, Wyatt was sure, as well acquainted with the guts of a prison as he was.

“What’s your number?” he asked the hacker.

“Eleven-fifty-something,” Edgar replied. It had actually been 1153.

“I got nineteen-seventy-two. Good year.”

They walked on, entering an atrium. This room was gloomy; one of the long light bulbs overhead flashed annoyingly. More cameras silently honed in on the new inmates, their glass eyes glancing over the scant furniture that had been arranged neatly. When Edgar ran his hand over the top of an uncomfortable-looking chair, his fingers came up with a layer of dust.

There were two doors at the far end of the room, one closed and one open. Wyatt saw as he neared the open door that this prison was not like any he had encountered before—and he had been transferred several times and seen many high-security penitentiaries since his arrest in ‘72.

Rothrad Penitentiary was a circular building, that much had been obvious when the bus had pulled up to it. The hallway he saw through the doorway was not illuminated wholly. It curved around the edifice’s core in darkness; there were no windows and as of yet no light. As Wyatt and Edgar cleared the doorway and entered this strange hall, the door behind them clicked as its hinges unlocked to let the door shut. The waning triangle of yellowish light from the atrium gave the two prisoners a flickering glimpse of a thin chokecherry wood door on the inner wall of the penitentiary.

Then the atrium door shut with a great deal of finality and left the two in darkness.


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The Little Bird

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Perched above the world in his tree was the little songbird, carefree and singing a happy tune. He watched, sometimes, the humans below in the park, watching children and parents play and lovers flirt; he did not much care about the things he saw, except for a longing in his young bird’s breast for the interactions between parent and child that a bird his age, although just a fledgling himself, has long since been without. Every day he sang and watched in faint envy of the children whose parents still loved them, watching and envying and waiting for a lark of the finer gender with whom to share the nest he will soon begin to build.

One day, while watching the walking path and all those who traveled upon it, the young lark espied a young girl—a newcomer to City Park, someone he’d never laid eyes upon before—a beautiful girl, probably no older than fourteen, and he in his fluttery heart fell in love, in a way that was unnatural for a young bird.

&&&

This girl came to the park every day and sat beneath his tree to listen to his song, with her pen and notebook, splashing beautiful words of poetry upon the lined pages therein. With each word the little lark read, the deeper into love he fell with this human girl—and more desperate he became. The young songbird cried to God in his beaked fashion to make her love him, to make him human so that he may truly meet her and be hers. And as if his prayer had been answered, one day a sorcerer came to the little lark’s tree in Central Park and spoke unto him:

“So you wish to win the love of this lady, do you?”

The little bird chirped his affirmation.

“I can make you human,” the sorcerer told him. “In exchange for your services, I will make you human so that you may enamor that girl. But if you will not carry out those commands which I give you, you will be a songbird again in an instant. Do you take my offer, lark?”

&&&

A beautiful song erupted from the tree from the fledgling’s joy. He hopped from the tree and fluttered down onto the sorcerer’s finger, who in turn put the little bird down upon the earth. The sorcerer chanted over the bird, blocking him with his wide frame from prying eyes. As he chanted, the bird became a boy, about twelve, to match his youth as a bird; a brown-haired, blue-eyed, nameless boy.

Once the transformation was complete, the old sorcerer nodded gravely. “Now you are indebted to me, dear lark. Do you understand?”

The boy lark nodded, forming the word with his newly acquired human lips: “Yes.”

“Be on your way, lark; but do not leave the park. I will return when I have a task for you. Until then, good luck with your human girl.”

And then the sorcerer disappeared.

&&&

The fledgling boy walked carefully and uncertainly to the playground, which had seemed so far from his home but was now only a short walk away. He played, alone, curiously, with the equipment that had once indeed towered over his tiny bird’s form, that now he, unbeknown to him, was almost already too big as a boy to play upon.

Once he had satisfied himself, he sat on a bench next to the playground to watch for the mysterious girl. He watched her walk up the path toward the tree hours later, and saw her look up into the tree for the little bird that had always accompanied her. When she saw that he was not there, before the boy lark could stand, she had turned and begun to walk home. He ran clumsily to catch up with her.

“Wait!” he cried, breathlessly, from a few steps behind her.

The girl stopped, and turned to him.

“Hi,” the boy said, sheepishly. “My name is.. Lark.”

The girl replied with an uncertain “Hi…”

The two stood staring at each other for a moment, as Lark realized that he had nothing to actually say to her. All he knew about human life was from what he had observed from his life in the tree; he did not know what they talked about, or how otherwise they interacted. The girl eventually turned and walked off, without another word, not even her name.

&&&

The girl did not return to the park for a long time; but in the meantime, the old sorcerer did. By the time he did, Lark was growing hungry; he had found that his human body did not like the berries to which his bird’s body had been accustomed. “Steal,” the sorcerer instructed. “No one will give charity; you shall have to steal for your meals.”

This was not such a difficult task, as people often picnicked at the park. Lark learned to sneak about and stole easily, eating well every lunchtime, although he always went to bed hungry. All that kept him going was the thought of that beautiful girl who did not mention her name.

Even as the boy, Lark observed. He tried to learn from watching how he should approach the girl when next he saw her, and took to heart the lovers’ interactions. He imagined that if he treated her those ways, that she could do nothing but love him.

When the girl returned to the park, looking to the tree for her little songbird, Lark came to her. She looked at him curiously, and at the same time suspiciously. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you again.”

Lark hesitated for a moment, then took her hand in one of his. He smiled at her, shyly. “I love you.” he told her. Then, uncertainly: “Will you marry me?”

The girl stared at him, blankly for a moment. Then she pulled her hand away from his with a look of anger on her face. “Do you think that’s funny? You don’t even know my name.” she responded. “Leave me alone!”

She stormed off, back out of the park, leaving Lark to his confusion. He did not know what he had done, but he knew that he had certainly failed to win the girl’s heart. In his woe he laid on the bench upon which he slept and cried, knowing not what else to do. He lay this way for many hours.

&&&

The sorcerer came to him much later that day, and the boy recounted what had happened to him. A solution came quickly to the old sorcerer: “Kill her.”

“What?”

“She does not want you, so she obviously does not matter, Lark. Get rid of her.”

Lark stared wide-eyed at the sorcerer. “I would never do that!”

The sorcerer’s eyes were filled with anger. “I command you so, boy.” he said, sternly.

“I would never kill her. I love her.”

“Then you will be a bird once again,” the sorcerer sneered.

And so with a long magical chant, the sorcerer used his magic to turn the twelve-year-old boy back into a fledgling lark, picking him up in his large, old hands, and putting the songbird back into his tree. “And thus you shall stay,” the old, evil sorcerer said. With that, he disappeared, never to return to the park.

&&&

The girl, though, she returned, and upon seeing the little bird in his tree once again, she sat beneath it with her poetry book and her ink pen. The lark’s heart still jumped with excitement at seeing her, and he fluttered down from the tree and onto the earth before her.

“Hello, little bird,” the girl said, cheerily. “How are you today?”

Lark chirped his chipper reply, and the girl giggled at his responsiveness.

He hopped over to her, in the cautious manner of a small bird. The girl put her notebook down next to herself and shifted from her lean against the tree, to reach out to him. Lark hopped onto her finger, cocking his head to the side with a bird’s smile wide across his face.

“My name is Andrea,” the girl told the little bird. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Yes, Andrea, yes! Lark replied in his bird-tongue.

Andrea stood and picked up her notebook in her unoccupied hand, then walking with the lark cupped in her palm, cooing at him as she went. Lark was overjoyed and ruffled his feathers contentedly in the warmth of her hand.

&&&

When Andrea got Lark home, she set him alone in a little bird cage in her bedroom, where for years to come he would sit, lonely, as the beautiful girl returned to the park to write her poetry to another bird’s song and hardly gave her lark at home a second thought.

Setting: Xidelstat, Zuria

Xidelstat is a territory of Jord. It is bordered by five states, not including its mother-state: Samir to the north; Yorkley to the east; Farilos to the southeast; Kadesh to the south; and Barisma to the southwest. The flat steppe area that came to be Xidelstat was uninhabited and for the most part undisturbed. Some oil company from Jord ventured into the unforgiving landscape and actually struck oil north of where the future territory’s capital would be. Having discovered such a treasure, the company sent a team of lawyers up to the national capital of F.D. Porto-Maro to request this federal land be sold or given over to Jord for the cultivating and refining of oil.

The national Agricultural Committee sent out a surveyor to determine where this unnamed territory would begin and end, and the deed to the land was sold to Jord for a five percent cut on the profit made from the oil each year. The territory was named after Franklin Xidelstat, the foreman of the team from the oil company that had struck the liquid gold.

Over the years, people from all the eight states brought their families to Xidelstat and created families there. Towns began to crop up and eventually cities were born from the influx of people, mostly oil workers and their families. Eventually Xidelstat developed its own micro-government, and although it was the pride of the Jordans, the capital Kitam was much too far away for them to keep a reign on the developing state-that-could-be.

&&&

Xidelstat’s principal cities are Sarabi, the capital, Quentin Town, and Feolus. They are each just miles away from an oil refinery or well, where most of the men of the cities worked. Sarabi became the territory’s industrial center, with warehouses and headquarters of such companies as the Borenir Corporation, the most successful company in all of Zuria. A railway station was built in Sarabi—aptly named Central Hub Rail Station—and the trains which run between Sarabi, Quentin Town, and City West in Yorkley, branched out into smaller towns like Uríth, Feolus, and a few in Jord where the steppe ebbed away. The Warehouse District and what became known as the Housing District were joined when the roads expanded, and soon the Public and Business Districts joined them at the intersection of Q-Town Road and Great Lady Main Street.

Sarabi and Quentin Town are the only cities in Xidelstat with public libraries. Quentin Town, however, is the only place in Xidelstat with a university. Zed University has been the birthplace of hundreds of profitable lawyering careers; these men and women usually go to work in the Federal District of Port-Maro or Yorkley. Doctors and engineers are also turned out  at Zed, though higher education is not a requirement for much else; and the principal business of the territory being oil drilling and refining, there is little use for much education in Xidelstat at all. Quentin Town is the home of work seminars and big corporate meetings because of the Quentin Auditorium, which is also a theater that houses local productions that people come from miles around to watch.

The town of Feolus is small, with an almost rural atmosphere. It has one manufacturing plant, where locals work with porcelain and glass. They make fine china, bath tubs, sinks, windows, mirrors, and glassware. There are even a few privately owned glass-blowing shops where the owners make glass figures and stained-glass hangers and windows (for a hefty price, most of them). Most of the wares from the plant are shipped in wagons to Sarabi, packed onto trains and sent to department stores across Zuria. Most people in Xidelstat, however, buy these things (for cheaper, in fact) straight from the plant, and so there are few department stores in the territory.

&&&

It took generations for the people of Xidelstat to consider themselves Xidelians, instead of the Farilons, Kadeshians, Barismans, ‘Delans, Hadians, Yorkers, Jordans, and Samiros/-as that their predecessors had been. When Xidelstat threatened to appeal to the national government for their independence, its power- and money-hungry neighbors Barisma and Kadesh brought their militaries in to Xidelstats’ borders and, without intervention from the mother-state that was ignorant of its territory’s situation, the two states fought for the right to overtake the territory and claim it for its own.

The war that rocks Xidelstat lasts 2½ years. The first period of the war, Barisma and Kadesh battle at the border, where even the Xidelians are unaware that there is a war. The second period, called Il Scåthan, or Krój Duży in the vernacular, sees the two armies going deeper into Xidelstat, eventually overtaking Sarabi and beginning to rip it apart. The armies also begin to take civilians and force them to fight among their ranks, as they’re cut off from their supplies and the rest of their men by the opposing army at their borders.

Something merciful happens after those two and a half years: the plainclothes militia from Samir has come, and although there are soldiers left from Barisma and Kadesh meant to kill any remaining draftees, for the most part there is peace. The national government eventually sends aid to the territory, including architects to rebuild Sarabi and rations and things. Luckily, outside of Sarabi there is little structural damage, although many Xidelians had disappeared and would never be found again. The government also granted Xidelstat its statehood (despite Jord’s assertion that they had no right to do it) and protection by the militia until Xidelstat could muster up its own forces. Barisma and Kadesh were sanctioned and in some cases embargoed, and many of their militaries’ officers were arrested and would be tried for war crimes. A few more years would go by before the draftees who were herded back into Barisma and Kadesh—or, those who survived—were discovered in the prisons and labor camps and freed by the newly-formed Xidelian Army.

Setting: Hub City

Hub City is a decently sized city  accessible only through wormholes. These portals were created at true north, east, south, and west in the city and in various places throughout the inhabited universe, and are kept in buildings called portal houses. The land on which the city itself sits is an asteroid with an artificial atmosphere, out at the hem of the universe. It is far from any sun and has no moon, and so has an artificial cycle of night and day. Likewise, without a natural rotation, the Hub’s seasons are mathematical and consistent. Spring and autumn were programmed to last the longest, winter the shortest and summer somewhere in the middle for a restful break from school and the chill. The man-made atmosphere does not, however, hinder the use of magic or in any way disrupt its courses like some atmospheres of its kind do—except from the outside.

The portal houses at the Hub are much like medium-sized mansions. They have three stories and contain at least twelve portals per floor (except the Corporate Sector’s, which also has two large portals that are designed for earth-vehicles and air-buses. These are built into an additional basement. The vehicles come up on the road via a ramp. This is also the bus garage during off-hours and holidays). They have elegant stairways and a moderately large cafeteria for hungry travelers. The ticket booths are on the first floor first thing through the front door, and checkers take stubs when you get in a portal to your destination. The amenities at the portal houses include free air-buses that circulate between them at thirty-minute intervals, as well as illusion machines that can make an otherwise-shaped man or woman look like the race of their choice for twenty-four hours.

From the portal houses, transportation in the Hub include earth-vehicles and air-buses. There are also bike shops, including regular bicycles and motorcycles, and stores where one can buy transportation of a less mundane kind: magic carpets and hovercycles and things of that sort. One shop, aptly named Up, Up, And Away! is a boutique specializing in flying broomsticks and the less primitive flying metal pole. All stores of this sort are near Central Square.

Upon entering the aptly-named Hub City from the west portal house, Ephrath, your eyes are greeted by the dilapidation of the slums, often referred to as “the broken spoke.” Here the houses are ramshackle and weathered, their paint, mostly white, chipping and peeling from the buildings’ wooden flesh. The road is paved roughly but it is ill-advised to walk; if your clothing looks new it may be stripped from you without hesitation by any man or woman who espies you wearing them. In the Brokenspoke, there are no vehicles but the buses that service the portal houses. They run every fifteen minutes through Central Square.

From the south portal house, named Nakimera, you enter the corporate district. Here the big businesses house their headquarters in high skyscrapers. The large manufacturers also have some warehouses in this district, though these days they are few and far between. Likewise a few banks have established themselves here, those for the rich—usually the corporate big shots who can afford the high checking fees. The most expensive bank in Hub City stands at the southeastern-most end of the Corporate Sector: Il Banco Bellaggio.

The streets in the Corporate Sector are neatly paved and delineated. Vehicles are packed in the garage down the street from the Bellaggio, and the portal buses don’t cross the intersection that separates them. The Corporate Sector portal is the only one large enough for earth-vehicles. The Corporate Sector is also the only section of Hub City where public magic is prohibited, and which has a wall to guard against the inhabitants and plant life of the forest.

Waldron, the east portal house, faces the east-west main street that ends as Kassi Row. All of Hub City’s most expensive real estate is on the Row, including the home of the mayor.  On the roads parallel to it are the more modest homes and apartments. Kassi Row becomes Portal Road EW (Waldron-Ephrath) five miles before it feeds into the roundabout at Central Square.

Of all the Hub’s portal houses, the north portal, Sulwyn, is the busiest. The northern portion of the city is called the “social sector,” where residents and outsiders alike gather after their working hours. The most notable establishments here are the Moving Picture Theater, Katya’s Gentlemen’s House, and the Common Grounds (the biggest bar in town, but by no means the only one). The theater sits between Katya’s and the Common Grounds, all of which are across Little Main Road from the long Markethouse. On one side of the Markethouse is the Office of the Law, and on the other is the Hub City Holding gaol.

Across Portal Road NS (Sulwyn-Nakimera) are other, lesser-known bordellos, bars, and live show theaters. Here on the west side are the hotels, motels, what-have-you, and overnight stay whorehouses (you can’t spend the night at Katya’s—you have to take them back to your place for that). There are fewer fireball lamps to light the streets anywhere far from the Moving Picture.

Central Square, often referred to as “the hub of the Hub,” is where most business takes place. Here are the smithies, mechanic shops, potions sellers, technology gurus, and the Grand Cathedral. The centerpiece of the Square is a giant fountain surrounded by the traffic roundabout. The fountain is made of amethyst and may weigh at least a ton. Here at Central Square magic is not only condoned but encouraged. Local children take school in the cathedral and come out at lunchtime to watch the magical displays and try their own hands at what they might do if they only had a little more experience.

Wandering peddlers and performers are required to obtain a license before putting their wares out on the Square. Anyone caught without such permit may find him- or herself in the goal for a few days. Sellers of pets, such as small dragons, dogs, cats, and birds are required to have special licenses and undergo a safety inspection.

Outside the city limits there is the Golmring Forest. Here there are wild creatures, most harmless but some fairly dangerous. Also this is where the werefolk, vampires, and other carnivorous residents and wanderers hunt.


The inhabitants of Hub City are as diverse as the locations to which the portals go. They are tradespeople, businesspeople, stay-at-home parents, drunks, thieves, and magicians. In race there are humans, elves, vampires (some of whom live very honest, nonviolent lifestyles), were-creatures, shapeshifters, fairies, the occasional demons and angels, and goblins—to name a few. The current mayor himself is a centaur, and the sheriff is a shapeshifter (this is often a point of contention between the denizens of the Hub. Some say there’s a racial bias against other races being the heads of the law).

Hub City is a place where powerful magicians can make their homesteads. Since magic and psychic “waves” are diffused by the atmosphere, it is a safe place for them to teach their children and train their apprentices have they any. The Hub is also friendly toward magical practices; the only place that “public displays of magic” are prohibited is the Corporate Sector. In the middle of Central Square, however, the fountain bubbles with psychical energy that enhances the strength of magical endeavors.

Area Map

, and which has a wall to guard against the inhabitants and plant life of the forest.

Twittering the News: How Twitter is Affecting the News Industry

Twitter is a social networking (or “micro-blogging”) service that connects users and allows them to interact with each other by reading and writing posts, called “tweets,” up to 140 characters in length. It is the brainchild of Jack Dorsey, Biz Stone, and Evan Williams, who “first envisioned Twitter as an easy way to stay in touch with people you already know” (Caine Miller, 2009) in 2006. They first saw Twitter’s news potential during an earthquake in San Francisco, CA, the same year, when they read other accounts of the earthquake from other users in the city, according to an article by Claire Cain Miller (2009).

Now Twitter is gaining attention as the newest way for news organizations to reach younger and more technology-oriented consumers. Cain Miller writes, “the news-gathering promise of Twitter was most evident during the terrorist attacks in Mumbai last November” (p. B1), when citizens “twittered” (posted to Twitter) about the incident as they were experiencing it first-hand. Since then, Twitter has seen a 900 percent increase in its user base (Sarno, 2009), which has made it one of the Big Three social networking websites just behind Facebook and Myspace (Cain Miller, 2009).

If you search for “news” under Twitter’s Find People page, 4,047 results will appear (and searching for “journalist” garners even more results). CNN, ObamaNews, BBC Breaking News, and Fox News are among the Twitter pages at the top of the list. Newspapers like the Orlando Sentinel, the Oregonian, the Wall Street Journal, and the Los Angeles Times all use Twitter regularly for breaking news updates; Shepard Smith of Fox News uses his Twitter account to comment on the news as well as popular culture; even the Weather Channel has its own page and responds on air to responses they receive on their tweets.

News organizations around the world are turning to Twitter to quickly update their readers and viewers on what’s going on in their communities, their countries, and the world. Twitter has become a medium for everything from politics (an ABC news anchor “twinterviewed” Senator John McCain in March) (Harper, 2009) to sports (ESPN has its own Twitter account).

The trend toward twittering news may be attributed to the way we consume news—or more accurately, the way we don’t. David Mindich (2005) points out in the preface to his book Tuned Out that “the future of our democracy depends on young people” engaging with the news, especially as older, more news-conscious citizens age. Yet, according to a poll by Wolfram Peiser in 2000, only 21 percent of the 18-22 year old respondents reported that they read the newspaper every day (Mindich, 2005, p. 28). Of those polled in another study, only 14.4 percent of that same age group said they regularly watched CNN (Mindich, 2005, p. 32). Statistics collected by the U.S. Census Bureau estimate that 18-34 year olds constitute about 70 percent of Internet users (U.S. Census Bureau, 2009, p. 711), so it’s no surprise that news organizations are turning to the newest popular technology to try to grab their attention and their patronage.

Twitter also is gaining potential as a news venue because of the fast pace of our society today. Co-founder Biz Stone said in an e-mail:

Reporters and news agencies seem drawn to Twitter because of its immediacy — something notable happens and they just reach into their pocket and text about it. That text can be instantly distributed to hundreds or thousands of ‘followers’ … or it can be ‘protected’ and only shared with an editor or a small news team for the purpose of gathering data in the field. (Tenore, 2007b)

The public’s need for instant and constant news updates about important topics, and their waning time to consume it, is driving the media to consider Twitter as its next best thing.

As an emerging news medium, Twitter already has its allies as well as its enemies. Opinions run the gamut from “a valuable tool for journalism” (Harper, 2009) to “a worrying development” (Sutcliffe, 2008) for media—in the words of Keith O’Brien, Twitter is “both magnificent and evil” (O’Brien, 2008).

Those who see Twitter as a boon to the media share the sentiment of John Harris, a senior engineer at the New York Times, who believes sites like Twitter can help news organizations better orient what they do to their readers, viewers, and listeners (Tenore, 2007a). Executive editor of The Washington Post’s website, James Brady, believes that “[s]ocial media is a pretty good way to get young readers to read news,” and supports the “social filtering of news” (Emmett, 2008) that has come about thanks to websites that use recommendation systems. Others tout the globalization and connectivity that Twitter and sites like it provide both the general public and mass communication professionals, who can glean story ideas from following and reading tweets from other professionals and organizations (Tenore, 2007a).

Like blogging before it, Twitter has racked up critics in its first years as an experimental news medium. Twitter “helps propagate rampant arrogance, terribly self-indulgent memes, and a steam-rolling of those who get in the way,” according to Keith O’Brien’s article in PR Week (2009). London reporter Tom Sutcliffe in 2008 chided the BBC in his article in The Independent for relying on Twitter for information during the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, saying that they “should be a bit more careful about blurring the boundary between twittering and serious reporting.” He points out that factual errors in citizens’ tweets could potentially hurt the credibility of the BBC (Sutcliffe, 2008)—and logically that can be said of all news organizations.

Jacob Harris acknowledges that one disadvantage of Twitter is the risk that internal information might accidentally be leaked on Twitter, but says that “these risks are not unique to the medium” (Tenore, 2007a). David Sarno (2009) noted in his article in the Canberra Times:

Even a few years ago the word ‘blog’ inspired that peculiar mix of derision and dismissal. . . . That blogs have become a fixture of media and culture might, you’d think, give critics pause before indulging in another round of new media ridicule. (p. A13)

If Twitter does, in fact, go the way of the blog, its future in journalism seems bright. News organizations turning to micro-blogging can have major impacts on the way news is presented and consumed. It will fill, if not create, a need for concise news reporting, create another facet of the job of reporters on scenes, and make communicating with newscasters and those in the newsrooms of newspapers, magazines, and radio stations much more efficient and gratifying.

At least on the Internet, in the future Twitter may create a cycle in media that will cause a shift to micro-news; the presence of instant gratification for the news will cause it to be expected, and when it is expected, the media will deliver. It’s possible that in the future, the long news reports we see on the Internet will be replaced solely by tweets or feeds of tweet-sized posts—which could, potentially, cause a shift back to newspapers for those who want more information and more in-depth discussion than what can be communicated in 140 characters or less per post.

The more Twitter becomes a staple of reporting and news gathering, the more important it will become for reporters to be able to post instantly to the site, whether it be to their own professional page, or to their organization’s. This will require reporters to learn to write succinctly and to leave out all the fluff, only giving the who, what, why, and where of a given newsworthy event, while still being able to write a full-length story to either be linked back to on the organization’s website, or to appear in the paper or on the broadcast soon after. In the words of Ana Marie Cox, “If I strip out the padding, . . . what’s my real point?” (“A-Twitter,” 2008, p. 40).

For TV news, Twitter has already made communication between anchors and viewers quicker and easier, much in the way that anchors like Bill O’Reilly reading and replying to viewer e-mails on the air has done. Anchors Clayton Morris and Alisyn Camerota both respond to tweets during Fox And Friends on the Fox News Channel. Even at The Weather Channel the meteorologists answer tweets during the national weather report, addressing questions and comments from the channel’s Twitter followers. With the combination of personal and professional tweets coming from media professionals, anchors become more accessible, which can potentially lead to better feelings from the public about the media in the long run.

Is Twitter the next step for the media to entice readers to consume more news? It seems very likely. Once it has been demonstrated to be a reliable source, Twitter may become a successful approach to connecting news media with the “tuned out” generations Mindich (2005) identifies as 30-somethings and under, and to catering to the needs of news consumers in their busy lives. Overall, Twitter can have a positive impact on the news industry, but only if it is handled correctly.

The Devil’s Backbone: A Prologue

What is a ghost? A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and again? An instant of pain, perhaps. Something dead which still seems to be alive; an emotion suspended in time, like a blurred photograph—like an insect trapped in amber.

The bomb was dropped by the Nationalist warplanes in the yard of the Santa Lucia school for orphans, a protruding stone structure in the middle of a desertesque nowhere. This was a no-man’s-land on the outskirts of a small Spanish city, one that was inexplicably flooding under sheets of cold, heavy rain, its packed sand road turning to a river of mud and the dry plants on either side of that road soaking up the rainwater like a glass of cold lemonade in June. It was raining hard that January night, as if the sky was crying out against the civil war over which the rain fell, for the lives lost and soon to be lost in those final days of war.

It had rained so hard and so long that night in 1939 that when the Nationalist bomb landed in the schoolyard, her head smashed against the ground and splashed in a puddle that must have been three inches deep. With that splash she tilted slightly to her left, creaking and groaning as if in pain—she creaked and groaned, but did not explode.

That cold rain mixed with crimson in the cracks in the courtyard floor, as the blood was washed away from the face of the boy who stood next to the freshly fallen bomb. He shielded his eyes with his hands, looking into the sky through tears and lightning to see the planes as they flew by overhead. He could hear the quickened beating of his own heart, but also a slower, more syncopated rhythm, that was like a pulse—that was her heartbeat, the ticking of the bomb.

“Key” Evidence

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“You didn’t have to take me to dinner, you know,” Kaden assured me again. Kaden Paolo had been my best friend for years, and he had just turned 26 years old a week ago. Chaos had broken loose for me that day and I had to miss his party. So I promised him I’d take him to eat at Olive Garden, and so there we were that Friday night.

“Yes, I did,” I replied. “If I didn’t keep my promise I’d be an asshole like everyone else I know.” I didn’t even bother to add the Except for you disclaimer, because he, despite being my best friend for years, was not exactly the most reliable, either; and I often found him on my shit list along with family, friends, co-workers, and random passersby who jaywalk during my commute to work. The waiter walked by carrying a tray and little table for another table, and I raised my arm quickly and called after him: “Excuse me, I’d like my check, please!”

Kaden and I sat chatting about work for a few minutes before the waiter came with our bill, tucked nicely into a little leather booklet. “Thank you,” I said to him, before he walked away. We had both demolished our dinners and were in no need of boxes.

“I didn’t mean to order the most expensive thing on the menu,” Kaden apologized, before I even opened the booklet. He adjusted his glasses on his nose like he was nervous. As if I hadn’t looked up what he had ordered on the menu before the waiter took our orders to see if I wanted what he was having.

“My God, will you shut up? I recommended it to you. Shut up and digest your birthday present.” I took up the bill and pulled my card out of my pants pocket, prepared to pay whatever price I owed with my trusty debit card. I opened the bill, and there it was: $26.99 for Kaden’s steak, $16.99 for my shrimp pasta dish, and $0.99 for both of our sodas. Beneath the total of $48.72 was a note, scrawled diagonally on the bottom of the bill sheet in bright red pen:

We have sights set on your friend, Miss Banagher. Snipers. Give me the key and I’ll call them off. Consider this my tip to you.

Marco

 


 

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La chute de la maison des Moreau.

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When the biographer Burke Desjardins sat down with me in his personal study, I was immediately stricken by a tension that tugged at my chest. He was nice enough; when I took my place in the cushioned chair across from him, he shook my hand cordially and asked me how I was doing. But I could tell he wanted to get down to business. He wanted to know about what happened to the Moreau family, and that was all he wanted to know.

….

“Before we get started,” Mr. Desjardins said, after clearing his throat, “for the record: I need your full name, and your relation to the Moreaus.” He looked at me as he spoke, and looked down quickly to his pad of paper as if my words would escape him and be lost forever if he didn’t have them written as soon as they were spoken.

I replied dully, “My full name is Jules Dashiell Lambert, I worked as a servant in their household for a little over half my life.”

“How many years is that?”

“About seven years, Monsieur.”

M. Desjardins scribbled this down, and I wondered if he would be able to read it, it seemed to take him no time at all. As soon as he was done writing, he looked at me thoughtfully, then jotted something else down, what I figured was a description of some sort. Once he’d gotten down what he wanted, he looked up, ushering, “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

I shrugged, but he didn’t seem to notice. “How do I start?”

“You can start where you started, if you’d like. Maybe start with the first time you noticed something odd about les Moreau.”

….

For a moment I was silent, gathering my thoughts and finding the beginnings; when I started, and when the strange started; and I found that they coincided. “Well… Monsieur Elroy Moreau took me in when I was seven years old from a poor, neglective homelife,…

&1&

He told me he would shelter me and that the other servants would take care of me until I grew to be more independent, and I would have food and a bedroom and they would pay me for my service every month. I left home and never bothered telling my parents goodbye; they never seemed to notice I was gone anyway.

Elroy Moreau was a tall bald man, with a dark complexion and piercingly blue eyes. His gut protruded as the mark of a well-to-do entrepreneur, and he always wore a firm, concentrating expression, like he always had something vexing that he was mulling over in his brain. He was a very successful man in Tulles; he owned the town’s funeral home, which also ironically was a doctor’s office as well, and this earned him a healthy salary. He was a shrewd businessman, but a lousy father.

The Moreau children were known possibly more prominently than their father. There were three of them, two sons and one precious daughter. Severin Moreau was the oldest, at fourteen years when I became a servant in the maison. No one knew what to make of him, but they all had a deep fear of him. He resembled his father more closely than his siblings, but with almost-black hair and vacant black eyes, darkly attractive in his own right. Not even the staff in the Moreau home dared to approach Severin, especially when he was in a foul mood—he had a raging temper like no one in Tulles had ever imagined possible.

Aure, who was two years younger than Severin, was the Moreaus’ cherished only daughter. She was the most beautiful young woman in Tulles, and every young man knew it. Her blonde hair grew long and curled at the tips, she had a naturally tan complexion, and her eyes shone like bright blue stars. She had virtually no temper, from what anyone outside of the family knew; and her brother Severin did not dare to raise a hand to her, even in the worst of his rages—she seemed to be the only one who could soothe him.

The youngest was three years my senior. Royce was a pallid boy, strongly taking after his mother. His hair was dark blonde, and his green eyes were set in a round boyish face, even once he had reached his teen years. Royce was as much his mother’s son as Aure was her father’s daughter, and he almost never left her side.